Hanging on a String (15 page)
Read Hanging on a String Online
Authors: Janette M. Louard
Later that night Thea and I sat down on my living room floor, listened to reggae music, and ate Chinese food. Reese was spending the evening with my parents, but Thea had escaped my mother's lectures on the sanctity of marriage and the prudent nature of forgiveness. I'd had a hell of a day, and I felt a little selfish, in light of my sister's problems, but I was glad to have her spend some time with me. I'd told her a little about what had happened that day, and like me, she'd been shocked about Raymond's true identity.
Her cell phone had rung periodically throughout the evening. Her husband, Brooks, had called her, but each time Thea refused to answer his telephone call. He'd already called most of her friends and my mother, trying to get someone to tell his wife to come back home. He knew better than to call me. I would have cursed him out. I don't take kindly to cheating men, especially when they cheat on my sister.
“What are you going to do about Brooks?” I asked as I dug into a carton of ginger chicken.
“Divorce him,” my sister replied as she devoured her garlic shrimp and broccoli.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean, it's not going to be easy raising Reese on your own.”
Thea sighed. “You sound like Mom.”
“You really know how to hurt a sister,” I laughed.
“No, seriously. She's been singing that song.”
“It's just that I've been down that road beforeânot the single mom part, but the divorce part.”
Thea put her carton of food down on the floor.
“When did you finally get over the divorce?” she asked.
I thought about this for awhile before I answered.
“I don't think I'm over it,” I said. “Sometimes I wake up, and I still expect to see Trevor lying next to me.”
“Do you still love him?” Thea asked.
“No,” I answered honestly. “But I do miss him. I miss his companionship.”
“I never liked him.” My sister lowered her voice as if she was afraid there was someone in the room, listening to our conversation.
“Really?” I was surprised. I thought that everyone loved my ex-husband. He was the charming one, the life of the party, the one with the outgoing personality. He had a great career, a terrific resume, and he vacationed regularly at my mother's favorite spot, Martha's Vineyard. He played golf and moved easily into social circles that I was uncomfortable with. He was my parents' dream. It didn't matter that he was self-centered, emotionally distant, loose with the truth, and at times pathologically insecure. He looked good in a suit, was outstanding in bed, and everyone, except my sister, apparently, thought that he was a good catch.
“You didn't like Trevor?” I asked.
“No,” Thea replied very firmly. “I thought that he was an arrogant ass. You were too good for him, but he was too stupid to realize the gem that he had.”
“You're just saying that because I'm your sister.”
“Jasmine, you are far from perfect, but you were way out of his league. Trevor's problem is that he drank the Kool-Aid.”
“Come again?”
“He believed the hype about himself. He wasn't satisfied with a good woman ... Basically, he wasn't satisfied with himself. I think that deep down he was jealous of you.”
“Jealous of me? What do I have that Trevor would want?”
“Integrity. Kindness. Decency. All the things he didn't possess. He's a shallow bastard, and trust me, he's going to end up with a woman who isn't going to look past his checkbook. He had someone who really loved him, and he blew it. He deserves what he gets.”
“Why didn't you tell me this before?” I asked.
“Because you loved him.”
“Well, do me a favor. The next time you have those feelings about anyone I'm involved with, give me a heads-up.”
My sister snuggled next to me, just as she had when we were kids.
“Brooks is an idiot,” I told her.
My sister continued eating. “I know.”
Just then my doorbell rang. It was close to nine o'clock.
“Who could that be?” I wondered out loud. “I hope it isn't Mom.”
My mother was known to make unannounced late-night visits when she was upset, and God, my sister's impending divorce had thrown off my mother's already delicate equilibrium.
I got up and went to the front door. Looking through the peephole, I saw Marcus Claremont. Once again, in spite of everything, the sight of Detective Claremont brought a heady rush of pleasure.
I opened the door.
“Detective Claremont, this is a surprise,” I said.
He looked different. His typical calm, easygoing demeanor was gone. He looked as if he was upset about something.
“I hate to ask this question,” I said, “but has anybody else I know met an untimely end?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
I opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Come in.”
My sister stood up, and I made introductions when Marcus entered my living room.
“Listen,” my sister said as she picked up the food cartons, “I'll just be in the bedroom.”
“You don't have to go anywhere,” I protested, but she was on a mission. In the space of two minutes, she'd cleaned up the food, put the cartons away, and deposited herself in my bedroom.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, remembering my manners.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Please, have a seat.”
He sat down on the couch, but I remained standing.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Yes.” Marcus Claremont looked at me. “There's something wrong.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“You, Jasmine,” he replied fiercely, “dammit, you're the problem.”
“Excuse me?” I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.
“You're the problem,” he said, “or more specifically, you're my problem.”
“Your problem?”
“Yes,” he said. “My problem. Since you left my office today, all I've thought about is you. Even when you were in your pit bull lawyer mode, all I wanted to do was kiss you. Ever since I first saw you, Jasmine, years ago, when you were in court, giving some judge hell, I've wanted to kiss you.”
I watched as he got up from the couch and walked over to where I stood. He was very close to me, too close. He lowered his lips until they were a fraction away from mine.
His voice was hoarse. “I've waited a long time, Jasmine.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, now truly alarmed.
“I'm going to kiss you,” he said, and then he did.
He kissed me more thoroughly than any man had ever kissed me. My ex-husband had been a good kisser, but he was no match for Detective Marcus Claremont. He ravished my mouth, and instead of pushing him away, as all common sense directed, I pulled him closer. Maybe it was the sadness that surrounded me because of Lamarr's death. Maybe it was the turmoil that surrounded the place where I worked. I don't know what it was that made me crave Marcus's embrace, but his arms felt like a blessing.
When he finally pulled away, I felt as if I were in some sort of trance. This wasn't me; this was some wanton stranger who had invaded my body. It was some consolation to see that Marcus looked as shaken as I felt.
I looked up at him. “What just happened?”
“I kissed you, and you kissed me back.”
I couldn't look at him. Embarrassment flooded me. I had behaved like a lunatic. I should have pushed him away indignantly. I should have at least registered a protest before I flung myself in his arms. This was bad. This was very bad.
“This is bad,” I said.
He looked like he wanted to kiss me again. “I know.”
“And you're right. It is a problem.”
He gave me a lopsided smile that made my insides grow very warm.
I took a very deep breath, which I hoped was fortifying. “This can't happen again.”
“It can't?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You're right. It can't. I'm in the middle of an investigation of murders that somehow might be connected to you.”
I walked over to the couch and sat down. I needed to regain my equilibrium. “The murders have nothing to do with me.”
“You might be right,” he replied. “But I have a hunch that you're somehow connected, and my hunches tend to be right on target.”
He sat next to me, and just as I was about to tell him that he was entirely too close, he took my face in this hands and kissed me again. This kiss was different. It was sweet and slow. He took his time exploring my mouth as all common sense flew out of my head. The last clear thought I had was that I could get used to a man who kissed like this. I had no idea what I'd been missing, and if this was how he kissed, I could only imagine how he would be when ...
When the kiss ended, he gave me a wry smile. “This is going to have to keep me until this damn investigation is over.”
I waited a few minutes before I responded to try to appear calm and rational.
“I think it probably would be a good idea if you leave,” I said, my voice still shaky. “Or I won't be held responsible for what could happen next.”
“I'm not going to kiss you again until I've asked you out on a proper date, and that won't happen until this investigation is over.”
“Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not so sure that either of us can keep that promise.”
“I will,” he said.
“You won't be the first man who's broken a promise to me,” I said before I could stop myself.
He walked to the front door, and before he opened it, he looked directly into my eyes and said, “I don't know what kind of man you're used to, baby, but I don't break promises.”
12
Chester's funeral service in Berry's Memorial Chapel was packed to capacity. Standing room only. At least three hundred people were jammed into the small chapel. His closed coffin stood in the front of the room, surrounded by a profusion of different colored roses. Beside his coffin was a picture of a smiling Chester dressed in a dark suit. There was a gigantic wreath in front of the coffin, with the words TO MY LOVING HUSBAND emblazoned on a gold ribbon hanging from the wreath.
“I wonder which wife sent the wreath,” Dahlia muttered under her breath as we joined the steady procession of mourners who came to pay their respects to the not so dearly departed. Dahlia had refused to let me go to the funeral without her. “I'm here for moral support.” Although I wasn't sure that I needed any moral support to attend the funeral of a man who continued to cause strife in my life and in the lives of others, even after he had departed this world for the next. Still, I was glad for the company.
The entire firm, except Raymond, had turned out for the funeral. I avoided my coworkers, who I knew had a lot to say about the recent deaths of their coworkers Lamarr and Irmalee. I didn't want to gossip with anyone. Despite everything Chester had done, I came to pay my respects. He was dead, and even though his bad deeds seemed to follow him, there was once a part of me that cared for Chester. I wanted to remember that person I'd cared for, even though after everything he did, it was difficult.
When I first learned about Chester's death, I had been upset. Even a little guilty. After all, I'd asked God to take him away from the firm, but it wasn't like I'd wanted him dead. My guilt and my sadness had started to evaporate quickly when I learned about all the dirt that Chester was involved in before his death. But here in the sanctuary, I felt a strong sense of sadness grip me. I thought about Lamarr again. I missed him. It felt strange not having him sitting there next to me. He would have been with me, just as Dahlia was. He should have been with me. I wiped away the tears that had started falling down my face. Dahlia silently handed me a tissue.
After I wiped my face, I looked around to see if I recognized anyone. I saw many people whose pictures I had seen in the society pages of the New York papers. There were not many regular folk in this crowd. I recognized some local politicians, some members of the New York bar, businessmen, clergy, some extremely attractive women, who all wore the same stricken expression of grief, and some of the media types that frequent the passing of a pillar in society.
I also saw a face in the crowd that I hadn't expected to see. Wallace Barker. Chester's former law partner. The history of Wallace and Chester was not good. I knew all of the dirt Chester had done, including stealing Wallace's wife as well as his clients. Wallace was just about the last person that I expected to see at Chester's funeral. If anything, I would have expected to see him line dancing on Chester's grave.
“Did you know that Wallace was coming to Chester's funeral?” I whispered to Dahlia as the procession slowly made its way to the front of the room.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “He didn't mention anything to me,” said Dahlia. “I talked to him a few days ago, right after Chester's death, and to tell you the truth, he didn't sound that upset about it. If I'm correct, his comment was that âpayback's a bitch.'”
“Doesn't sound like he's grieving Chester's death,” I commented.
“Well, after all the mess that Chester did to him, would you expect him to be crying over Chester?” asked Dahlia. She was defensive, and I knew why. Wallace was a friend of Dahlia, and Dahlia couldn't tolerate anyone being critical about her friends or anyone she happened to love.
I looked over at Wallace and saw that he didn't look grief stricken. He didn't even look sad. To be fair, except for the attractive women, who all looked like they were clones of each other, all light skinned, tall, thin, with long hair, no one looked particularly sad. Most people looked as if they were curious. Some looked bored. Well, what did you expect? I spoke silently in the direction of Chester's coffin. After how you treated people, you expected a nice send-off?
The procession line started moving more quickly, and much too soon I found myself standing in front of Chester's wife, shaking her cold right hand. She was dressed completely in black, and she wore a black hat that was reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy's pillbox hats, covered with a veil, which she had pushed back off her face and which was now floating above her hat like some demented spirit. Her lips were trademark red. Sherrie wore no make-up other than her red lipstick. Her lips were her best feature, and the red lipstick made sure that everyone noticed.
There was no sadness in Sherrie Jackson's eyes. She stared at me as if I were an apparition of something distasteful from her past, something she did not like, but she could not remember either the reason for her dislike or, in fact, who I was. From the glassy, vacant look in her eyes, she appeared to me to be under the influence of some unnatural substance. As I leaned forward to tell her how sorry I was for her loss, I thought I caught a whiff of Scotch, covered by the strong scent of perfume. This combination, as well as the overpowering scent of flowers, brought on the immediate feeling of nausea.
The sound of agitated whispers, muted conversation, and the rustling of people turning in their seats caught my attention. All eyes except those of the widow and, of course, Chester turned to the back of the chapel. Winter Reed had arrived. She, too, was dressed in black, but while Sherrie's black widow weeds gave her the appearance of being washed out, Winter's long black lace dress only added drama to an already dramatic woman.
Her dress was formfitting, accentuating her round belly. Like Sherrie, she had a hat on her head. Winter's wide-brimmed hat was covered with hideous black satin roses, which would have looked ridiculous on anyone else but this woman. Even from a distance, I could see that Winter's pictures on television and in the papers did not do her justice. She was a breathtakingly beautiful black woman. She moved confidently up the center aisle as people who were waiting in line parted to let her through.
I glanced at Sherrie, who remained sitting, with her back as straight as a Marine Corps officer on duty. Her eyes were fixed on Chester's casket.
“Lord have mercy,” Dahlia murmured at my side.
I'd been to my share of high-drama funerals, after all I am a Baptist, but Chester's funeral took high drama to a whole other level. I held my breath and looked quickly to see where the exits were located. I wouldn't put it past Sherrie to pull out a gun and take care of business.
As Winter walked up the aisle, a strange and sudden hush descended in the chapel. It was as if we were all waiting to see what she would do. Would she confront Sherrie? Would she create a scene? It was like waiting for two slow-moving cars to crash.
I heard the sound of a chair scraping the wooden floor. Turning in the direction of that sound, I saw Nina standing up, her eyes angry. She stood with her fists balled up by her sides, and she was muttering something, which I could not hear.
“Let's go, Jasmine,” said Dahlia. “I don't like the vibrations I'm getting in this room.”
“No,” I said. Maybe something would happen that would lead me to whoever killed Lamarr. I was convinced that the killings of Chester and Irmalee were connected to Lamarr. Even if I had to sit through the entire funeral and listen to all the lies that would undoubtedly be said about Chester, I would do it.
I turned my attention back to Winter, who had now walked past me, past Sherrie, and past the many other women in this room who had loved, or were still in love with, the man in the mahogany casket. Winter knelt down in front of the casket, with both hands outstretched, the tips of her fingers caressing the casket, as if she were caressing the man inside.
Sherrie remained stoic, and whatever she was thinking remained a mystery to all but herself. She remained a rigid, cold statue, staring at the casket and the woman kneeling in front of it.
I knew I was wrong, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the scene, even though it was in extremely bad form and taste.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of quick footsteps, almost a run. I saw Nina walk up to the casket. She said, in a clear, firm voice, which carried across the chapel, “How dare you come here!”
I watched as Winter stopped caressing the coffin. She stood up and faced Nina. “I have as much right to be here as you,” she said. Winter was not backing down.
“You've made him a laughing stock, and now you come here to defile the service.” Nina's voice rose. Gone was the woman who never lost her composure or a case. Nina was hysterical. Her eyes looked wild. She looked as if she could kill someone.
“Ladies, ladies,” said the pastor who was officiating the service as he walked quickly up the center aisle. Someone had had the presence of mind to run and get him. “This is not the time, nor is it the place.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
“Yeah, y'all need to take it outside,” whispered Dahlia. “And your girl Nina needs to chill, because Winter looks like she could do some serious butt whipping.”
“I've come to say good-bye to my husband in peace,” announced Winter to the pastor and to the congregation.
Sherrie stood and walked the short distance to the coffin and Chester's women. “If you cannot honor Chester by conducting yourselves in a respectable manner, then I will ask you both to leave.”
Winter looked as if she wanted to say something, but she remained silent. Nina refused to be silent, however. “How could you let this tramp stand here and talk about the man you married?” asked Nina. “What's wrong with you? How could you let her do this to you? Humiliate you like that?”
Sherrie turned and got in Nina's face. Right in her face. She never once raised her voice, but her meaning was clear. Crystal clear. “I've stood for a lot of things that other women would never have stood for. Winter isn't the only woman who didn't respect the fact that my husband was very much a married man when she slept with him. I don't blame them, because no one put a gun to Chester's head. He didn't have to lie down with whores. He chose to do that. Just as I'm choosing to ask you to leave if you can't conduct yourself in a respectful manner.”
Nina caught her meaning.
The pastor spoke up again. “Ladies, I repeat, this is not the time or place.”
“I'll leave,” said Winter. “I came to say good-bye to Chester, and that's what I've done. I'll leave. There's no need to stay where I'm not wanted.”
Sherrie didn't respond. She did not look at Winter. Judging from the blank look on her face, Sherrie might not have heard a word that Winter spoke. Nina, however, seemed satisfied, and she walked back to her seat.
I watched as Winter leaned over and kissed Chester's coffin; then she stood, made the sign of the cross over the coffin, turned, and walked back down the center aisle. Sherrie remained standing at her husband's coffin. The pastor, apparently relieved that they had not come to blows, followed Winter as she walked out of the chapel, off to collect himself for the sermon that he had to give.
Nina sat back down beside her sister, Gem, who'd come to the service with her. Gem looked stricken. At least Gem had the sense to look mortified about the scene her sister had just created. I turned my attention back to Sherrie, who was now bending over Chester's coffin. She leaned over as if she was going to kiss the mahogany casket. Instead of kissing it, however, I saw her lean forward and spit right on the spray of roses that adorned her husband's coffin. I don't know if anyone else saw her. Her back was turned to the people, who had come to pay their respects. But as I was standing off to the side, I had a perfect view of her actions. For a moment I thought I'd imagined it. But when she turned and I saw the triumphant smile on her bloodred lips, I knew my imagination was not playing tricks on me.
“What a mess,” whispered Dahlia as we walked back to our seats. “What a damn mess.”
I was inclined to agree.
Â
The rest of Chester's funeral passed relatively uneventfully. The sermon was given by someone who spoke in such loving, glowing terms about Chester, it was obvious to me, and probably to the majority of folk at the funeral, that the pastor hadn't met Chester. The whole scene with the three women warring over Chester, even as he lay cold in his coffin, was disconcerting. I knew that this would have been my fate if I'd stayed with Chester. Fighting over a man who probably didn't give a good damn about any of them. I knew I couldn't judge too harshly. At one time in my life, I'd thought that I loved that man, and I knew I would have done just about anything for him. Even make a sorry jackass fool out of myself, which I did on more than one occasion. But seeing these women, all beautiful, no doubt accomplished in whatever they desired, smart, seeing them claw over someone as worthless as Chester, made me glad that I had gotten away. If Chester had stayed with me, I would be just like them.
I watched as the solemn pallbearers carried the coffin out. I didn't recognize the faces of the pallbearers, except one face. Wallace Barker. He was one of the pallbearers. Once again, I heard the sound of bells ringing out like alarms in the distance. Wallace was no friend of Chester. Not after everything he had been through with Chester. And yet, here he was, his face gaunt and unreadable, carrying the coffin of a man who lied to him, cheated on him, and took away two of his most prized possessions. As my West Indian grandmother, Louise, would say, “One and one ain't adding up to two here. Something ain't right.”
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